


Merry New Apartment

by wrothmothking



Series: 10-Word Prompt Fics [6]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, F/F, Hanukkah, Moving In Together, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:54:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21909268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrothmothking/pseuds/wrothmothking
Summary: It's a big step, taken in a big time of the year.+brief Oliver cameo, mentioned past Oliver/Felicity
Relationships: Laurel Lance/Felicity Smoak
Series: 10-Word Prompt Fics [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/824853
Kudos: 21





	Merry New Apartment

**Author's Note:**

> I used the 'Channukah' spelling because it was the one Felicity used in the subtitles.

The lights are a tangled mess. The lights are _always_ a tangled mess.

Felicity huffs. "You realize by the time we get these up it's gonna be New Years, right?"

"If that's what it takes," Laurel says, merciless as she is adorable in her reindeer-printed pajama set.

"Ugh. Once we get these up, we are _never_ taking them down."

Laurel giggles, positively giddy as she sorts through their combined holiday decorations. "C'mon, switch with me. Sara used to tie these things into giant knots when she was little."

It's said casual, but anyone who's been blessed with knowing Laurel Lance as well as Felicity does could see the pained wistfulness on her face. "I'm sorry she couldn't be here."

"She's alive, that's all that matters."

"Is it?"

They let the question sit for a moment. Laurel gets the strings looking like strings, and Felicity firmly puts the creepy baby Santa in the 'No Thank You' box--she would appreciate it if Quentin would stop trying to pass it on to them.

"I'll always have the past. I just wish I'd appreciated it more, the four of us together, no assassins waiting in the dark or megalomaniacs breaking down our door."

"Hm. I think you'd miss them now."

"No. But I'd miss the Black Canary." Laurel stops to look at her. "And I'd miss you."

"Aww, I'd miss you too," Felicity gushes, sidling up for a kiss tasting of strawberry chapstick. "But are we crazy for moving in together so soon?"

Laurel scowls. "I don't feel crazy at all, do you?"

"No, no, I'm just afraid that _something_ , something is going to sending us crashing back to reality and we'll start stepping on each other's toes and resentment will slowly build between us and then we're regretting ever doing this in the first place!"

"Hey, hey, breathe. Nerves are natural for any new relationship, and I am here for you, and I want to be with you-"

"I want to be with you! Here, now, sleeping in the same bed every night, or, well, morning, and splitting chores and having our mail say both our names and having your grandma's ugly holiday plate next to the menorah."

Brilliant white teeth flash in a shy, beatific smile. "Okay. _Yes_. But if what's worrying you is more than some vague fear of the impending, unknowable future, I need you to tell me, alright?"

Felicity chokes on a wet laugh. "Alright. It's not--I've never gotten this far. Usually some mistimed brush with death puts the brakes on it, and things just never, line up the right way again."  
"I'm not going anywhere."

"I know. It feels crazy saying it, but I do. We've been coming together..." Felicity trails off, blushing. "And to think I almost went a whole conversation without doing that."

Laurel boops her nose. "I almost didn't notice."

"We're always going to be a little sideways of the norm, aren't we?"

"Regrets?"

"None."

Laurel tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, cups her face, and whispers, "Me too."

Suddenly Felicity jumps, the moment broken by a loud _ding_. "Who actually uses the doorbell?"

"Former billionaires don't learn manners overnight. Or ever."

"Must be a programming issue. Come in!"

Oliver saunters in. "This place is in no state for a party. I should know-"

"Heard it," Laurel cuts in. "We have a lot of preparation left. Weren't you going to rally the troops for us?"

"They'll be here in a minute," Oliver says, shrugging off the interruption with impressive grace. "You don't even have the tree up."

"Thank you for volunteering."

Chuckling, Oliver sets to it, stopping on his way to give Felicity an awkward hug. Felicity savors the contact, kissing his cheek before he can pull out of her space. She'll always love him, and she'll always regret their almost for robbing them of their former easy, platonic intimacy. It earns her a real smile, and for the first time she believes they'll recover.

The door swings back open, and in stumbles Mom, dressed slutty as ever under her plum overcoat. She shivers, teeth chattering. Felicity meets her halfway, nearly falling over as her mom falls into her.

"Next time, move somewhere tropical. For me."

"It would help if you closed your coat. Or wore more clothes."

"I would've died of heatstroke before the plane could take off. Oh, _Laurel_ , come here, you wonderful girl. We have _a lot_ to talk about before the party starts."

"Guess I'll get started on the latkes."

As Felicity cooks, she overhears the others, John and Lyla and baby Sara and Thea and Quentin, arrive. John finds her quick, cradling his daughter in his arms, and Felicity drops everything to squeal over her while he snacks on the dessert bread.

"It's really coming together, huh?"

"Yeah," Felicity agrees distantly, distracted by Sara's charming giggles. "She's so ticklish! I wonder if she'll grow out of it--I never did."

"No?"

Hopping back, Felicity grabs the spatula and raises it at him in threat. "Don't even think about it. I shared that in confidence."

Chuckling, John retracts his hand. Still wary, she keeps an eye on him as she flips the latke.

"But seriously, are you good with this?"

"I know you don't approve," Felicity sighs. "You've wanted-"

"Doesn't matter what I want. You and Oliver could've been great together, sure, I saw that potential between the two of you the moment we all met, but the important thing is you're both happy. Are you _happy_ , Felicity?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I really am."

"Then I'm good. And Oliver will be, too.""I don't need your approval," Felicity mutters, hating the words as they escape her. She doesn't want to fight. She doesn't want them to _dis_ approve, either.

"I know. But it's nice to have, right?"

She relaxes. "It is. Thanks, John."

"Moving in together same week as Christmas is pretty gutsy, but I know the two of you will pull through together. Laurel's a great girl."

"You haven't always thought that."

"Things change. People change. Me and Laurel both aren't who we were back when everything started."

"I'm different, too. I don't think I could tolerate a 'normal' life again."

"I hear that."

Companionable silence descends between them, buoyed by the sound of familiar voices and Sara's playing with a wooden dreidel Felicity's mom had given her when she was the babe's age. She had no plans to pass it along as Sara wasn't Jewish, but as she'd sorted through the holiday boxes she'd smiled at the thought of her pseudo-niece playing with it. Maybe Sara would convert when she grew older, maybe she would be Christian like her dad, maybe she would be any of a number of other religions or maybe she would be an atheist.

"Okay, first one's done. Want to share it with Sara?"

"I'm not much for potatoes. And I'm out of bread, which tells me I should have left five minutes ago to start putting together your bookcase. Do you want to keep her?"

"Love to." She may not adore babies in the way of her mother, but Sara's special. Family.

Felicity considers making more of her batch. On the one hand, more food is never not a plus. On the other, everyone's already snacking and between her day job that actually pays her and her illicit evening activities, she doesn't get much time with Sara.

"Y'know, I think I'll cook the rest of this for just me and Laurel tomorrow." Then, after a moment's thought, "After I make one for my mom."

So, soon enough, she has a plate of two, a pile of dishes to be rinsed and reused the next day, and Laurel peeking in around the wall separating the kitchen from the chaos of the living and dining rooms. Less subtle is her own mother, peering over her shoulder, champagne in hand. 

"Hey."

"Hey," Laurel says back, and how she packs so much flirt into one little, three-letter word Felicity doesn't know, but she is elated to be on the receiving end of it. She swaggers up to the island like she owns the place--which she half does--and like she can kick the ass of anyone who has a problem with it--which she can.

"I was just about to share with our friend here the story of Channukah. Do you have a lighter for me?"

"Oh, I do!"

"Why'd I even ask? Thanks, Mom."

Taking the offered lighter, Felicity moves her menorah closer, keeping it a safe distance from Sara. It's simple, compared to the ones she's seen. Rose gold, vines of filigree decorating.

"A long, long time ago, my ancestors, the people of Israel, were being forced to convert to the beliefs of the invasive Seleucids. Except they refused. They fought back, knowing they were outnumbered and outgunned, for the sake of faith, and identity, and their right to their own home, sort of like your daddy and your aunties do--though we tend to have much better odds." Felicity pauses to insert the candles. "They took back the Holy Temple, rededicated it, only to find that most of the oil had been tainted by the Seleucids. Only a single cruse of olive oil remained, enough for a single day. But," Felicity flicks the lighter, touches flame to candle, "it lasted eight."

Laurel leans into her, wraps an arm around her waist. "Happy Channukah, babe."

"Happy Channukah, Felicity," Mom well-wishes, glued to her other side.

"Happy Channukah." She turns her head into a kiss, smiling at her mother's cheer.

Sara gurgles.

"And happy Channukah to you," Felicity says, bending to place a smooch on Sara's forehead.

**Author's Note:**

> Words: reality, relationship, vague, brush, norm, state, rally, preparation, tropical, mail


End file.
